Echo of an Angry God

by Beverley Harper

  ‘My mistake,’ Lana said coldly.

  ‘Not the only one. Your partner here,’ Karl sneered at the word partner, ‘gave the game away. Stella overheard him talking to the servants.’

  ‘Stella?’

  Karl smiled with his mouth alone. ‘Stella is loyal to only two things. The gin bottle and me.’ He tossed Moffat a length of rope. ‘Tie her hands behind her back. Remember I’m watching.’ He spoke again to Lana. ‘You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? Now you pay the price.’

  With Lana’s hands tied, Karl instructed Moffat to turn around and he tied his hands as well. Then he checked that Lana was secure before, walking closely behind them, he ushered them outside and into the back of a newish-looking 4x4 vehicle. Karl got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. ‘The police will find your car here. They will draw their own conclusions about your friends. Your whereabouts will remain one of Malawi’s mysteries.’ He put the vehicle into gear and drove quickly away from the house.

  Lana glanced at Moffat. He sat staring forward, his face expressionless. She tried to cling to Sarah Fotheringham’s interpretation of the witchdoctor’s words: that she would hear music of the spirits, that the drums of retribution would stop beating, but all she could think was that she was in the deepest trouble and that, somehow, Moffat’s friends, Daniel and Dorcas, had paid the price for it.

  Karl drove fast on the chewed-up road to Chilumba, with no thought for his two passengers. He did not speak to them again. Where the trip had taken three hours the night before, he reached Chilumba in just under two. Lana felt she had bruises on every part of her body. With Karl, once again, walking closely behind them, his body shielding the fact that their hands were tied, they were quickly herded on board Silver Bird II and pushed below. Ramón Alzaga’s face registered surprise when he saw them but he made no comment. Karl offered no explanation either. The hatch was shut over their heads and, soon after that, the engine started up and the yacht was under way.

  Lana sank down onto one of the seats. ‘Get up,’ Moffat hissed. ‘Over here. There’ll be knives somewhere.’

  With his back to the galley stove, Moffat located a drawer and, with difficulty, opened it. He stepped aside and Lana looked in, shaking her head when she saw the contents. Moffat tried a second drawer. ‘Bingo!’ Lana breathed. It was impossible to get a knife with their hands. Lana solved the problem by picking it out of the drawer with her teeth.

  ‘Sit,’ Moffat said softly. ‘Turn your back to me. I’ll hold the knife steady and you will have to saw your ropes back and forth, okay?’

  It took ten minutes but finally her hands were free. She quickly cut through Moffat’s bounds.

  ‘Look for a weapon,’ Lana whispered. ‘Anything with grunt we can swing.’

  She began hunting in the cupboards. Moffat checked the forward and aft cabins. Crouching, Lana reached into the back of a cupboard under the sink. Her hand closed around a metal object and she went icy cold. She knew what she had found, even before seeing it in the light.

  Lana stared at the Brunton pocket transit. Not so many years ago, all field geologists had carried such an instrument. It was a compass but, attached to the bottom of the compass box was a circle divided into degrees and half degrees. This attachment, called a clinometer, was used to measure vertical angles. It was also possible, by looking into a mirror on the inside of the cover and sighting on some distant object or landscape feature, to get a horizontal angle reading.

  Basically they all looked alike. Her father had one. It had been an essential piece of field kit equipment. She remembered how, when she was just eight years old, and thinking she was doing him a favour, she had scratched her father’s initials on the casing using the point of her school compass. Her father had been furious when he discovered what she had done but, as she tearfully explained that now no-one could steal it, he had picked her up and kissed her and said, ‘Sorry, poppet, what a clever thing you are, thank you.’

  Lana’s mouth was dry and her heart hammering. Turning the instrument over, the confirmation she sought gleamed dully back at her. There, scratched into the metal back of the Brunton, the initials J. D. D., and the number 23. Lana had started to put the date on the back as well, realised she would run out of room, and abandoned the idea. It all flooded back as though it were yesterday.

  She sensed Moffat crouching beside her. ‘I found nothing,’ he whispered. ‘What’s that?’ Then he saw the look on her face and his mouth set in a grim line. ‘Your father’s?’

  Lana nodded, words straining through the tight constriction in her throat as she pointed to the initials. ‘I did that when I was eight.’

  ‘We have no time for this,’ Moffat said urgently.

  She knew he was right. She put the Brunton into her pocket and pulled a heavy frying pan from the cupboard. ‘Take this,’ she hissed. ‘And this.’ She passed him a carving knife. She grabbed the paring knife they had used to cut themselves free and picked up a two-pronged fork, the kind used for barbecues. ‘We have to look as though we are still tied up. Hide those behind your back. You sit that side, I’ll sit here. That gives us more room to move.’

  An expression her South African grandfather used to use flitted inexplicably through her mind: ‘It is better to spend one day as a tiger than 1000 years as a sheep’. She had always loved the expression. Now she was in a tigress mood she wasn’t so sure.

  She looked out through one of the windows, it was not a porthole, it was square and slid open. Then she realised that it was big enough to climb through. ‘Moffat, look. We can get through here and go over the side.’

  ‘They’ll see us.’

  ‘They think we’re tied up. They won’t be expecting it. Come on.’

  Moffat shook his head.

  ‘It’s better than sitting here,’ she urged.

  ‘Lana, I can’t swim. You go.’

  Hope died as instantly as it was born. She would not leave him on his own.

  The engine was cut suddenly and they heard footsteps overhead, then the rasp of chain as the anchor was lowered. In the silence that followed, they could hear perfectly the conversation between Karl and Ramón.

  ‘I still say we should have gone to the Mozambique side.’

  Karl’s voice was impatient. ‘See that cloud to the north. That means trouble. We’d never make it to the other side.’

  ‘But we’ve gone nowhere. Just into this harbour.’

  ‘And that’s where we’ll stay. That storm should hit in about an hour and it’s going to be wild.’

  ‘How the hell can you possibly know? It might blow itself out.’

  ‘That fringe of light cloud around the main storm mass is a warning. You do not know this lake as I do. Be patient. It’s better to get to Likoma late than not at all.’

  ‘Not this time, my friend.’ There was silence for a few moments, then Ramón asked, ‘What’s the story with those two?’

  ‘You know who they are.’

  ‘Yes, but for God’s sake, Karl, I can’t get mixed up in anything like this.’

  ‘You won’t be. The cave is perfect.’

  ‘I still don’t like it.’

  ‘You don’t have to like it. Just shut-up, do your job and leave.’

  Silence while Ramón digested Karl’s words. Then he said, ‘Are you planning to leave them in the cabin all the way to Likoma?’

  ‘No. We’ve got to eat. I’ll bring them up later.’

  Moffat moved and sat next to Lana. ‘Likoma,’ he said softly. ‘We’re safe till then.’

  Lana looked through the window. The sun was going down. Capturing its scarlet brilliance on a mirror surface, the lake glowed deep crimson, like a pool of molten rock. A slight breeze touched the silken image sending small ripples of gold towards the shore. Dark cumulus clouds hung low over the Livingstone escarpment to the north-east, the outer edges a shimmering silver. It was a beautiful sight.

  Her father’s Brunton lay snug in her pocket. Lana turned her he
ad and stared at Moffat. ‘If I can, I intend to kill him.’

  He nodded. ‘Stand in line.’

  It was fully dark outside before they heard the hatch open. A torch light shone down into the saloon. ‘Up on deck,’ Karl ordered. In the glow of the torch, they could see Ramón directly behind Karl.

  The darkness of the cabin helped conceal the frying pan behind Moffat’s back. He went swiftly up the three steps, past Karl and onto the deck, swinging the heavy based cast iron pan at Ramón’s head. Lana, immediately behind him, jabbed at Karl with the barbecue fork, and his gasp of surprise and pain told her she had made contact. Giving him no time to recover, and without stopping to think, Lana launched herself at Karl and the two of them crashed to the deck, Lana’s fingers scrambling for the small kitchen knife she had hidden in the back pocket of her slacks. They might have got away with it but, in the cramped cockpit, Ramón had sensed Moffat’s movements and shouldered him aside, the frying pan only glancing off his head. Moffat, off balance, staggered back and Lana, who was still grappling with Karl, was knocked forward, giving Karl time to collect his wits. He wrapped her in a bear hug and, with surprising agility, rolled on top of her and stood, using his knees in her midriff as leverage.

  The Argentinean’s cold voice stilled all movement. ‘I have a gun.’ He threw a switch and a mast light glowed. ‘Over there and sit down.’ Moffat moved backwards and sat down. Karl literally threw Lana down beside him and produced his own gun. He was breathing heavily.

  ‘You will be locked in one of the cabins until we reach Likoma.’

  ‘My father was on this yacht,’ Lana yelled at him. ‘Why did you kill him?’

  ‘Your father was never on this yacht,’ Karl denied it. ‘I’ve only had it three years.’

  ‘Then where did you get this?’ Ramón snicked off the safety catch of his Walther PPK as Lana, with no regard for her safety, plunged her hand into a pocket and produced the Brunton.

  Karl looked at it impassively. ‘My staff moved everything from the ketch to this yacht. That must have been with all the other stuff.’

  ‘You murdered my father!’

  ‘Murder?’ Ramón sounded amused. ‘Really, Karl, you do surprise me. I thought you had more sense.’

  Karl threw a hate-filled look at Ramón. ‘Your mouth is too big, my friend.’

  The Argentinean smiled like a crocodile, then turned to Lana and Moffat. ‘Your little heroics were impressive but you see, a man like Karl will never let you get between him and his money.’ He glanced over at Karl. ‘Isn’t that so, my friend.’

  ‘Shut-up!’ Karl growled.

  Ramón shrugged. ‘What does it matter?’

  Lana realised he spoke the truth. What did it matter? Karl had said something about a cave. Was he planning to murder them and leave them in it? ‘What’s in this for you?’ She was stalling. Up here on deck there might be a chance for escape. Locked into a cabin, there was no hope.

  Ramón considered her question. ‘On Likoma is proof of Britain’s lies and deception. Many have died because of it – but that is of little importance – ultimately we will have what is rightfully ours.’

  Lana’s eyes met Moffat’s. Great Mother’s shame lies hidden, two men seek her secret. ‘Could the other man be Tim?’ she wondered. ‘Britain and Argentina – the Falklands – it has to be.’ Lana realised suddenly just how much danger she and Moffat were in. Karl was evil, no doubt about it, and prepared to kill again to safeguard whatever secret he was hiding. This man, Ramón Alzaga, was possibly more dangerous. Clearly an agent with Argentina’s secret service, he would not hesitate to kill. Professional and detached, he would do so in the name of politics, the ethics of his deeds being of no consequence.

  Moffat’s voice echoed the hopelessness Lana was feeling. ‘We have no interest in your political games. Why don’t you let us go?’

  Ramón laughed at him. ‘I would be prepared to. My friend is not. What happens to you two is of no interest to me. Karl has too much to hide to allow you to live, isn’t that right, Karl.’

  The antagonism between the two of them was something they might use. Moffat obviously had the same idea. ‘You might be implicated. You were seen at his home.’

  ‘It is not in Karl’s interest to implicate me. I have too much information about him.’

  Karl was dabbing at the fork marks in his arm. He looked up briefly at Ramón and scowled.

  ‘You see,’ the Argentinean went on, ‘Karl can’t afford to come to the attention of Internal Revenue. Nor would he like an international incident if a certain country close to Malawi discovered what he was up to. As I said before, he will protect his back pocket with everything at his disposal.’

  ‘He killed my father . . .’ Lana jumped to her feet and flung her hand towards Moffat, ‘. . . and his, for that!’ She didn’t stop to think. She sprang at Karl, her fingers curled like claws, wanting to rip his eyes out.

  Ramón moved quickly, like a cat, his hand whipping up and crashing down again over Lana’s wrists. The pain was terrible and she cried out with it. Karl had his pistol trained on Moffat. ‘Right, I’ve had enough of this.’ Karl waved the gun from Lana to Moffat. ‘Into the cabin. Now!’

  Lana stumbled down the steps into the dimly lit saloon, Moffat right behind her. ‘Get in there.’ Down three more steps was a small aft cabin. The door and hatch slammed shut behind them and a bolt shot home. Like the saloon, the cabin was softly lit. Ramón must have activated all the yacht’s lights when he turned on the mast light. Lana hoped they would stay on. She sank onto the bed and put her face in her hands. She felt a slight pressure as Moffat sat beside her and then the warmth and comfort as his arm went around her shoulders and he pulled her close. Lana sobbed onto Moffat’s shoulder in helpless frustration and despair as she had done onto Bernard’s fifteen years earlier. Moffat said nothing, just held her.

  They sat like that for ten minutes before she took a shuddering breath and stirred. ‘That African way,’ she said shakily. ‘I just blew it.’

  Moffat grunted, half amused. ‘Just a little bit.’

  ‘We’re in the deepest possible shit and it’s all my fault.’

  He squeezed her shoulders. ‘If you hadn’t done it I would. I’ve never felt like that before. I wanted to kill him.’

  She felt in her pocket for a handkerchief, blew her nose and took another deep breath. ‘How the hell do we get out of this?’

  Moffat glanced at the small porthole then turned his attention to the floor of the cabin. One panel lifted but it only gave access to the propeller shaft. There was no way out. ‘We could open the water valve on the toilet and flood the boat but that could give us even more trouble. Perhaps they’ll let us back on deck if we promise not to try anything.’

  Lana couldn’t think of a better idea so she pushed at the hatch but it was solid and immovable. ‘Trust that bastard,’ she said grimly. ‘Hatches are usually flimsy.’ She banged on the door. ‘Please let us out,’ she yelled. ‘We won’t try anything again. You have our word.’

  Silence.

  ‘You can’t keep us cooped up in here.’

  Silence.

  ‘Bastards!’ she snarled at the door.

  ‘Don’t antagonise them.’ Moffat patted the bed. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘This is hopeless.’

  ‘Let’s think rationally.’ Moffat calmly responded. ‘Ramón doesn’t have to kill us but he will if we get in his way. Karl needs to silence us but he’s not going to do anything until we reach Likoma. Would you agree?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So there’s some hope.’

  Lana laughed bitterly.

  ‘You’re right, there’s no hope.’

  ‘Unless . ..’

  ‘What? Unless what?’ Moffat watched her closely.

  ‘Ramón is with the Argentinean secret service, that’s obvious. Remember the Nganga’s words about great mother’s shame and two men? Tim Gilbey is MI6, I’m positive. It’s possible he’ll be on Likoma too.�
��

  ‘And then?’

  She tossed her head defiantly. ‘And then it’s three against two.’

  He was still watching her.

  ‘What? Why are you staring at me?’

  ‘I’ve just realised something,’ he said slowly. ‘The African way won’t help us. I called your way arrogance before but I was wrong.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not arrogance is it? You actually believe we have a chance. You’re going to go for it aren’t you? You might die in the process but that’s not going to stop you. My God!’ Moffat gave a short laugh. ‘It’s blind faith. It’s always been blind faith. While Africans have been accepting the inevitable because that is our way, the Europeans took control because they believed they had the right.’ He banged a fist into a palm. ‘Jesus! No wonder we were so easily colonised.’

  Lana watched him in amazement. ‘Are you quite finished?’ she asked with a degree of sarcasm. ‘Because I would rather have this profound conversation some other day.’

  Moffat rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘You’re right. Ignore me. I’m getting hysterical.’

  Lana hugged him. ‘Many words spring to mind to describe you, Moffat. Hysterical is definitely not one of them. Now, can we hold over the soul-searching for some other time?’

  Moffat laughed softly. ‘Let us hope, my white sister, that the time is one we’ve been allotted.’

  The hatch sliding back silenced them. Karl stood in the entrance, a look of pure dislike on his face. ‘You meddling idiots. You’ve brought this on yourself.’

  Lana stared at him coldly. ‘You killed four men. You must have known someone would come looking for you one day.’

  ‘Come looking for me?’ His lip curled into a sneer. ‘You silly little girl. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.’

  Lana’s voice went soft and flat. ‘Oh, I know who I’m dealing with, Karl. A cold-blooded murderer.’

  Moffat nudged her. Karl could just as easily shoot them here and now.

  ‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘What did they do to deserve it?’

  He went to step into the cabin, thought better of it and stayed at the doorway. ‘I grew up in South Africa. My family were dirt poor farmers and I was one of fourteen children. I got my first pair of shoes when I was eleven.’ He smiled slightly. ‘They were cast-offs from the farmer next door,’ he added.